


Of Kettles and Kilims

by Callisto, JoJo



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Curtain Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, hurt Bodie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-12
Updated: 2011-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-21 07:38:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callisto/pseuds/Callisto, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoJo/pseuds/JoJo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“A whateem?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“A kilim.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Doyle pronounced every syllable as if his life depended on it, and Bodie thought about smacking him. God, but Ray could be a pretentious git when he wanted.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Kettles and Kilims

Doyle left everything in the hall and peeked his head in the living room cautiously.

Bodie was still full length on the sofa, looked not to have moved so much as an eyelash since Doyle had left three hours previously on what seemed on the face of it to be a doomed mission to raise his spirits. ‘The Racing Post’ Doyle had brought back from his last mission was still unopened on Bodie’s chest.

Doyle was just about to tiptoe into the kitchen to put the kettle on when ‘The Racing Post’ gave an ominous crackle.

“Where’ve you been?”

The voice was flat but somehow full of recrimination.

“Shopping.”

A snort. Bodie levered himself up on his elbows and reached out a hand for the little bottle on the coffee table. He didn’t even ask what Doyle had been bloody well shopping for this time, but just opened the bottle and dry-swallowed a couple of the little white pellets that were starting to haunt Doyle’s dreams.

Definitely time for the kettle.

“Brought a chippy takeout” he called from the kitchen hopefully. “You up for that?”

After a gunshot wound, a tricky surgery, and various relapses mostly involving the word pneumonia, Doyle was used to his questions not being answered very quickly or accurately. He shoved the food ın the oven to warm it up, chuntered on about this and that while brewing up the tea, and then nearly tripped over the rest of his purchases as he returned to the living room bearing mugs.

“Cod and chips any good to you? Be about ten minutes to warm it through.”

A sigh.

“Mushy peas?”

Bodie didn’t answer.

“You’ll never guess what I went and bought for us, sunshine,” Doyle ploughed on, willing his voice not to notch up into frustrated. Ever the man of action, he ducked out of the room and hauled it in, falling over himself to suddenly get it out in the open and sort out where they could put it.

When he was done and the last word had tripped nicely off his tongue, there was a reaction. Although not quite the one Doyle was expectıng.

Instead of temper and snark, Bodie was doing that slow-blinking thing he often did after his painkillers kicked in.

It was Doyle’s turn to sigh – he was clearly doing a piss poor job of explaining himself.

***

“A whateem?”

“A kilim.”

Doyle pronounced every syllable as if his life depended on it, and Bodie thought about smacking him. God, but Ray could be a pretentious git when he wanted.

Bodie eyed the object in question, the product of Doyle’s latest quest at cheering him up and making their first joint flat ever look... well, joint. He looked up at Doyle, who had that long-suffering look about him Bodie thought he might just find the energy to have some fun with.

In truth, a lot of his discomfort was now frustration more than pain. He never did well when his body had to knit itself slowly back together and he was required to simply sit on the sidelines and let it. He knew that. Just like he knew exactly who and what Doyle’s forays into both town and kitchen were aimed at. But that didn’t mean he actually had the energy or inclination to respond with anything other than a grump. After all, it wouldn’t do for Doyle to have his way too quickly – Bodie was rather enjoying a home cooked afters every night.

Still, one had to rally at some point...

“You’ve been had, Doyle. It’s a rug. Not a killiwhatsit.”

Doyle looked momentarily taken aback, and then rolled his eyes so far back in his head Bodie thought Ray might lose his balance. “A kilim, you peasant, _is_ a bloody rug! An authentic, hand-woven, last-through-anything rug.”

He waited, just a beat. “I thought you said it was a kilim?”

“Bodie!”

Bodie’s lip curved and Doyle finally cottoned on, exhaling loudly and shaking his head.

“You bastard. Don’t fucking do that.”

“Yeah, well.” Bodie smiled more fully now. “Can’t let you have all the fun, sunshine. Besides, you were had.” He reached out a hand to where Doyle had propped it against the coffee table. He tugged on the nearest tuft.

Doyle’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean had? How have I been had?”

There was a pleading quality to his voice that warmed Bodie right up. Yeah, couple more minutes and he’d take pity on the poor sod.

“Weeell...” he said, stretching the syllable as much as he dared. “My mate Ahmet--runs that place on Stoke Newington High Street--you know, where we went after the Arsenal game...” Bodie felt a chuckle threaten, “...could have turned this place into a bleeding harem for us for half what you probably paid for this.”

“So what you’re telling me is you don’t like it?”

Bodie paused. He loved it. He thought it was bloody brilliant. Could see it on the floor in front of the fire no trouble.

“Weeell...”

Grim-faced, Doyle marched back into the kitchen. Bodie watched the retreating sprayed-on denim with an interest he hadn’t felt for many a long and dreary week. He kept his face neutral as Doyle returned, a glossy magazine in hand.

“Right.” Doyle said. “This is it. This is my last offer.”

He removed ‘The Racing Post’ and replaced it with the magazine. From his recumbent position Bodie could vaguely see some thatch, some roses, the solid granite of a little homestead a million miles away from London, together with perhaps more hospital waiting rooms and the much-too-familiar interior of his flat. He raised an eyebrow, curious to see how the mad golly was fitting all this together.

“Cornwall,” said Doyle, almost with a snarl. “Middle of bloody nowhere. Five minutes from the most picturesque cove you ever saw in your life. Aga, double bed, seagulls. You can lie around in the grass and think deep thoughts, mate.”

“Doyle, it’s February.” Actually, Bodie wasn’t even trying anymore to keep the soppy grin off his face.

His partner, bless, was still a beat of heartfelt emotion behind.

“I know it’s February, you twat! We’re not going on holiday in February - no one rents a cottage in February, Bodie. Jesus. It's for when you're... Oh, forget it. Don't know why I bloody bother.”

Each successive rant was making Bodie feel better and better.

Right. Time to put him out of his misery. The mileage was about used up, and Bodie loved the poor bastard so much at that moment he couldn’t justify any more. With only a little difficulty, he got himself into a sitting position and put his feet on the rug.

“Go and get me mushy peas, then.”

“Eh?”

“I think I could manage half a cod and couple of chips.” He didn’t think he could actually, but all of a sudden he was determined to get as much stodge down his neck as humanly possible, just for the pleasure of seeing Doyle’s face.

Bodie could tell Doyle still wasn’t sure, but he put out a hand and let Ray pull him up until he had his feet firmly planted. Then he did planting of a different sort and got Doyle right on the lips, his first smacker in about a month.

Doyle was blinking, mouth a little agape, so Bodie did it again. Then he gestured to the rug--sorry, _keel-eem_ \--at his feet.

“The knock-off rug’ll do nicely and lunch is much appreciated, sunshine. And as for the cottage for two in the middle of bloody nowhere...” He caught hold of Doyle’s hip and tugged him closer. “Yeah,” he breathed, mouth an inch away from Doyle's, “the Sultan of South Ken most definitely approves.”

******


End file.
